


Traitor Squadron

by BeamRacingLeauge



Series: Traitor Squadron [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alien Character(s), Alien/Human Relationships, Be patient, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gun Violence, I want it to feel natural so, Lightsaber Battles (Star Wars), Multi, Space Battles, its done im just publishing it chapter by chapter, no poly in this one but its coming, sequel in the works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-25 10:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30087519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeamRacingLeauge/pseuds/BeamRacingLeauge
Summary: How do you atone for the crimes of your past? Well by committing crimes in the present, Obviously! Such is the story of Estrela Noir. Once an inquisitor, once a Jedi, now just a man dealing death to the highest bidder to fund his side gig - putting the Empire he once served to death for its crimes. But when a small group of rebels literally kidnap him in search of his help, he's forced to rethink his position in the Universe.The first of many adventures of a small OC rebel group as they struggle to both destroy the Empire and get along with their allies over at rebel command. In the vein of Star wars rebels, but with a completely new cast of characters(rebels/OT character will show up sometimes) and maybe longer plot threads in some cases.
Relationships: Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character
Series: Traitor Squadron [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2213844





	1. Don't Ask For Help

This planet is awful. The fine dust that covers its bone dry surface never ceases to whip through the air, penetrating clothes with ease, stinging exposed skin, and lodging itself in every mechanical instrument imaginable. The ground is perfectly flat, so the wind never stops, turning the entire planet into a massive unending dust storm hurtling through space. Aside from the bright green street lights that mark the road, he can’t see more than two feet in front of him. His cape whips out behind him, following the powerful gusts of wind. He reaches up and tightens his mask, momentarily thankful that his mouth, nose, and eyes are covered by its black metal plates, only wishing that it covered his hair and forehead as well.  
Regardless of his opinion of the planet’s dust, the Empire apparently loves the stuff. The entire planet is dotted with refineries. Around each forms a small, gray metal city of imperial import labor, stormtroopers, and offworld merchants looking to make a quick credit selling booze and other random crap to the first two. Aside from that, nothing sentient lives here. In his short stay that has already gone on much, much too long, he’s heard a few stories of starfighter sized gas gulpers that glide on the endless wind their entire lives, never touching the ground just a few feet below, somewhere out in the uninhabited dust oceans, but not much else. This planet is uninhabitable and dead, and as far he’s concerned, it should stay that way.  
Why his client chose to meet him here, he had no idea, but that meeting, which he had arrived two days early for, has arrived. In the far, far distance of almost close enough to touch, he can make out the sign for a small watering hole. What exactly the sign says, he doesn’t know, but he’s relatively certain it’s the right place, and tired of having to excavate his way through the planet’s atmosphere either way, so he pushes the door open and walks in.  
Not a single person looks up from their drink or gambling game or plate of worryingly colored “food” as he walks towards the bar. Two others, both human, occupy the bar, at opposite ends, both nursing minor facial injuries. Brawlers, it would seem. Of no consequence. More interesting, he decides, is the woman behind the counter, a young Twi-lek with, somewhat oddly, vibrant red skin. Her shoulders are wide and visibly muscled, and her forearms are thick. She’s wearing what appears to be some kind of leather corset, doing its part to support her decidedly large breasts and exposing the bottom half of her midriff, where she sports a very well-defined six-pack. No weapons readily present themselves, but Estrela suspects from her physique that at least one is concealed somewhere. He walks up and sits down on one of the stools, prompting her to set down the cloudy glass she was cleaning and walk over to him.  
His body, by contrast, is covered almost completely by black armor, similar in design to mandalorian armor, minus the signature helmet. The only exceptions are his arms, which are bare. A thick black cape hangs from his shoulders, flowing almost to the ground. He stands at about 6’2”, by his estimate a little under two inches taller than the woman in front of him. He has a relatively neutral, if athletic, build, with deceptively thin limbs, hiding the dense muscle beneath. His entire left arm, all the way up to part of his shoulder, is cybernetic, and covered in plates of black metal armor, contrasting the much lighter graphene plastoid construction of the rest of his armor. A deep but faded and ancient scar runs across the length of his neck.  
“Want something specific?” she asks. Her Twi’lek(French) accent is fairly thick.  
“Kind of. Bring me something that looks alcoholic, but isn’t,” he responds. His voice, for its part, is a bit odd. Fairly high compared to other human males, he suspects, and somewhat robotic, as if every third or fourth syllable is swapped with that of a droid.  
“Not here for fun, then.”  
“Afraid not. I’m on the job for the moment, but maybe I’ll come back for fun later.”  
“I hope you do.”  
“And why’s that?”  
“Bounty Hunters make good money.”  
“And do they often tip that money to you?”  
“Yeah. all the time.”  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
“Fine, ya got me, they don’t, but you could. Besides, hunters are good for keeping order.”  
“Really? Figured it’d be the other way ‘round.”  
“Yeah, good at not starting stuff, better at ending it, and no one wants to mess with ‘em. Just don’t listen too closely when they talk, and they’re like free bouncers. It’s perfect.” She slides him a cup full of. . . something. Red something  
“What exactly is this?”  
“Blood.”  
“Very funny,” despite himself, he cracks a smile under his mask at the woman’s smiling wit, “seriously, I’m not putting this in my body until you tell me what it is.”  
“Seriously, it’s Acrot fish blood. Tastes like fruit juice, and it’s supposed to be good for concentration.”  
“Very well then,” he reaches up and pulls the bottom part of his mask off his face, leaving just the part wrapped around his eyes, and attaching the other half to his neck. He picks the drink up, inspects it for a moment, and raises it to his lips. Just as promised, it tastes vaguely like some kind of fruit juice.  
He starts to set the drink down, “Cocky as promised,” and is greeted with the barrel of a blaster. She pulls the trigger. At the last second he raises his left arm, catching the stun bolt on his metal forearm. The bolt struggles to conduct itself through the artificial arm, and he manages to stay conscious. His sudden movement disturbs the stool below him, and his body goes crashing to the ground. He shoves back with his legs, simultaneously dodging a second bolt and rolling to his feet. His arms feel about a million pounds heavier than usual, but he nonetheless manages to raise his fists.  
“Who are you?” she opens her mouth to answer, but he never hears it. His body goes limp and flops to the ground as a second stun bolt sinks into his back.  
“Hey, I totally had a witty retort to that,” Vialen complains to the Mirialan woman standing over his now unconscious body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have actually finished this entire book, I'm just releasing it week by week because it's more fun. I intend to release a new chapter every Friday, but don't quote me on that. Also, just to be clear. Yes, this series will feature a polygamous(one man/multiple women) relationship. It won't actually become poly until the sequel, because that was the only way I felt like I could get the pacing right and generally make the relationships at least somewhat convincing, but it is coming.


	2. Don't Fight Alone

It’s cold. His shoulders hurt. He tries to open his eyes. The room he’s in is dark, but he can see. He can see the bright red twi-lek standing over him, smiling. He can see the door to whatever room this is behind her. His hands are chained behind his back. He’s on his knees, and his ankles are bound to his wrists.   
“I ask again,” his voice is a tad groggy, but he manages to clear his throat, “who are you, and what do you want?”  
“I am the enemy of Man,” she says it in a smooth, melodramatic voice, before half-whispering under her breath, “Yes! I still got to use it.”  
He lets out a small chuckle, “so, not Imperial then. Which means you either want money or revenge. So, which is it? Should I crack open my wallet or brace myself for torture?”  
“Don’t worry so much. I’m not here to hurt you,” she assures him.   
“I would be more willing to believe that if I weren’t quite so chained to the floor of a dark basement right now.” Despite the obvious nature of the situation, she doesn’t seem to be lying, “I assume someone else does the hurting, then. You just do the sweet talking and the gun slinging?”  
“No one is going to hurt you,” her tone is kind of condescending, “I just wanna talk.”  
“Are you breaking up with me?”  
This makes her laugh out loud, “good sense of humor, this homicidal terrorist, don’t ya think,” she turns to the corner of the room and asks.   
“Yes. He seems to believe he is funny,” a figure, shrouded in black shadow, steps out of the corner of the room. A mirialan woman, wearing a full length black cloak, with long, deep black hair flowing down just past her waist. She stands about nine or ten inches shorter than Vialen, but the black cloak, rigid posture, and steely, hateful eyes give her an imposing air nonetheless. Her face betrays little of what she feels as she stares down at him. Her face is partly covered by tattoos, but only one catches his attention. A bright red diamond at the corner of her eye, running down part of her cheek. The meaning of the other tattoos is foreign to him, but that one, he recognizes.   
“Murderer,” he mutters out loud.   
“Indeed,” her fingers drift up to the tattoo, “I killed a man in cold blood, back on Mirial.” Her eyes are cold. She hates him. Under that mask of indifference, she’s just waiting for an excuse to put a blaster to his head and pull the trigger. And it won’t be a stun blast this time.   
“Neither of you have answered my question,” he tries to steer the conversation back on track.   
“My name is Vialen,” the Twi-lek introduces herself, striking a bit of a pose as she does, “and this is Cala,” she jerks her thumb in the direction of the Mirialan, “and we are here to recruit you.”  
“You know, normally, if someone needs my help on a job, they just ask.”  
“This isn’t a job,” Vialen tells him.  
“What is it then?”  
“We’ll get to that. First, you. You used to be a Jedi.”  
“Someone’s done their homework.”  
“What was your name back then? Ah, right, Bayln. Then, order 66 happened, and Bayln died, at least, on paper.”  
“It’s easy to lie to a piece of paper.”  
“It is, it is. And that’s exactly what the Empire did. In reality, you were captured, and delivered to one Darth Vader, where you became the Twelfth Brother.”  
“That’s very secret. You guys must have some serious contacts.”  
“People like to tell me things. I think it’s because I’m so,” she leans forward and squeezes her chestplate, “witty and clever. Back to you, though. You became an Inquisitor. For four years, you hunted the enemies of the Empire to the edges of the galaxy. No one escaped, and no one survived.”  
“I didn’t kill your husband or something, did I?”  
“Uh, no I wouldn’t worry about that. Anyway, then, one day, on a routine mission to subdue some unhappy mining colony or whatever, something went suddenly and horribly wrong, and the twelfth brother, died.”  
“A tragic loss for the Empire, I’m sure.”  
“One standard year after that, someone else showed up. A lone warrior with a red laser blade, fighting a one man war against the Empire and hiring his services as a killing machine out to the highest bidder. His MO was always the same. Find a soft target, get in, do some irreparable damage, and fade back into the darkness. What was his name again?”  
“Estrela Noir.”  
“Of course, Estrela Noir, The Black Star, from which nothing can escape.”  
“That’s me,” Estrela confirms, “now, my turn.”  
“You know nothing about us.”  
“Then you better start talking”  
“Or what?”  
Estrela’s hand twitches, and Vialen loses her footing. Rather than hit the ground, however, she just floats, a few inches off the ground, gasping for air as her windpipe closes, “Or I put an end to this farce, and both of you.” He lets go, and she collapses to the floor.   
“I was,” she breaks into a coughing fit as she tries to get back to her feet, “just getting to that,” she clears her throat and stands back up, “sheesh, impatient, aren’t we.”  
“This is not exactly a comfortable sitting position.”  
“Fair enough. We are like you.”  
“Former Jedi? Bounty Hunters?”  
“Traitors. We all worked for the Empire at some point, and now we fight against them. We’re rebels. And we’d like you to join us. Well, some of us would.”  
“I petitioned against even coming here,” Cala announces.   
“Good to know.”  
“A few weeks ago, we got a tip about a new Imperial super soldier program of some kind. We’re trying to run down the program and dismantle it. Will you help us?”  
“Problem,” Cala says, looking up from a small screen strapped to her arm, “we’ve been found.”  
“How long?”  
“About 47 seconds. I’ll alert the others,” she strides out of the room.   
“Decision time,” Vialen announces, “yes or no.”  
“Tell you what. I’ll give you my answer after we fight off the imps. See if you’re all you say you are.”  
“Fine,” she hastily agrees, already kneeling behind him and unlocking the chains.   
“My sword?”  
“Here,” she pulls his black half-circular blade out from behind her back and hands it to him, “our ship isn’t far from here.”  
“Where is here exactly?”   
“Abandoned refinery basement. Get ready for a fight,” she opens the door and charges out. Already he can hear the squeal of blaster fire coming from the hall.   
“Maybe it really is time to stop fighting alone,” he wanders aloud, before sprinting out after her into the hallway.  
Despite the lingering sound of blaster fire, the hallway around him appears empty. Several stormtroopers lie, dead, at one end. Something moves. Another trooper. He raises his blaster and fires. In one motion, Estrela ignites his blade and sends the bolt careening back down the hallway. It strikes the trooper in the throat, killing him. He turns to face the end of the hallway, and waits, blade at his side, for the horde he can feel amassing just beyond his field of vision. Idly, he wonders what happened to Vialen and Cala. His thoughts are cut short, however, by a wave of white-armored stormtroopers piling out into the hallway and sloppily firing their blasters in his general direction. He charges towards; his blade dances out in front of him, manipulated effortlessly by his one real wrist to intercept and return every bolt that comes his way. The crowd of troopers starts to pull back, but their retreat comes too late. He thrusts his blade forward, and skewers two stormtroopers through their worthless plastoid armor. As they drop he transitions into a rapid series of elegant wide slashes, twirling in every direction as his blade cuts the trooper apart with almost surgical precision.   
Only problem is, now he’s surrounded. More than a dozen dead bodies litter the ground near his feet, but the remaining attackers have managed to clamber back down the hallway, firing wildly as they retreat. He tries to pursue one of the groups, but he can’t move in either direction without exposing himself too much to the other group. His blade circles his body, creating almost a shield against the mounting blaster fire.   
Something distracts them. Behind one of the groups, more blaster fire, this time friendly. He seizes the opportunity and launches himself toward the other group, slashing at them as he leaps through the air. He lands in the center of the disorganized group, and within a few seconds, none remain. He looks up, to see, standing over the bodies of half a dozen bleeding, dead stormtroopers, a. . . clone? At least, someone wearing what looks like clone armor. Only, he doesn’t have a blaster. Instead, attached to each forearm is a two and a half foot long vibroblade. He turns to the other group. It’s gone as well. In its place stands Vialen, with a massive hand cannon blaster in each hand. That explains the arms, he realizes. Blasters that large kick like a gundark, and firing one accurately, more or less two, is no easy feat.   
“Which way?” he calls to Vialen. She gestures further down the hallway, to what looks like a lift, as she walks past them. Just as he turns to follow, the door slides open, revealing another dozen stormtroopers, blasters raised. Vialen raises both blasters, and opens fire. Each shot opens a hole the size of a fist in a stormtrooper’s chestplate, and launches them into the wall behind. She continues to stride down the hallway, ducking and swaying out of the way of the incoming fire. The clone reacts, too. Without prompt, he charges down the hallway, keeping low while moving almost inhumanly fast. Almost instantly the distance between him and the remaining shooters is closed. He vaults off the wall and comes down hard on the shocked troopers. His movements blend into an ill-defined blur, cutting them to pieces .   
“Well, that takes care of that,” Estrela comments as he and Vialen catch up and board the elevator.   
“Impressed yet?” Vialen asks as they step into the blood-sodden elevator.   
“Certainly,” Estrela admits, looking down at the mess, “if not a bit. . . confused. Where’d Cala go?”  
“She’s getting the ship ready.”  
“How did she get out?”  
“Very stealthy.”  
“Very Impressive,” Estrela admits, “Is there a reason she hates me?”  
“Probably,” Vialen figures, “but I don’t know it,” the elevator stops, “get ready for round two.” The elevator door opens.   
The dust is back. In front of him sits a small, decaying landing pad. In the distance he can just make out a small rectangular freighter, engines running. At least two dozen sand troopers dot the pad, most surrounding the freighter.   
“Round two it is then,” he decides.  
“Welcome to the team,” Vialen says.   
“Glad to be here,” a smile spreads under his mask as he charges forward. His bright red blade acts like a beacon in the storm, attracting a hailstorm of blaster fire. He feels the bolts of Vialen’s blasters whiz past his ear as he advances. With the tap of a button, his blade enters staff mode, and he dives into the battle. His lightsaber cleaves effortlessly through their helmets, and one by one they drop. A storm of blaster fire surrounds him, but he barely notices. The force guides him through the storm, feeding the correct reaction to his limbs as he moves. His blade flits through the air around him, acquiring and dispatching every new target with ease. A red flash reaches the edge of his vision as Vialen finishes off the last trooper.   
“On the ship before reinforcements come,” she jogs past him, towards the open loading door at the back of the freighter.   
“On it,” he falls in line behind her, and the two of them leap into the ship as it takes to the sky. Just as Vialen warned, yet more stormtroopers begin to gather on the landing pad.   
“E-web,” Vialen calls towards the cockpit.   
“Understood,” Cala responds from the pilot’s seat and quickly presses a few buttons. A series of green laser blasts materialize from the bottom of the ship, slam into the ground below them, and destroy what little remained of the landing pad. “Axalon?” Cala asks.   
“Yep,” Vialen confirms. Within a few minutes, the ship is free of the planet’s gravity and hurtling through hyperspace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing fight scenes for Splitter has made me realize why lightsabers supposedly instantly cauterize any wound they make. It's really hard to ignore how much blood cutting down dozens of people with an edged weapon in a confined space would produce.

**Author's Note:**

> I have actually finished this entire book, I'm just releasing it week by week because it's more fun. I intend to release a new chapter every Friday, but don't quote me on that. Also, just to be clear. Yes, this series will feature a polygamous(one man/multiple women) relationship. It won't actually become poly until the sequel, because that was the only way I felt like I could get the pacing right and generally make the relationships at least somewhat convincing, but it is coming.


End file.
